Nashville SEAL: Jameson: Nashville SEALs

by Sharon Hamilton

  “You know, for such a smart kid, you sure say the dumbest things.” Thomas was pointing his fork at Jameson’s nose. “I fuckin’ work hard at it every day, same as you. I show up. I play the gigs people like you and old Reed give me. I don’t go begging for work. I find it. Sometimes I find work that actually pays enough to make my rent. I don’t complain. You ever hear me complain?”

  “No. I don’t. But—”

  “Just shut your pie hole.” The fork was in the air again. “I’ve never given up any more than you have. But you know as well as I do, your chances in this town are just not very good. We work our butt off. We show up and try not to get too drunk or booed off the stage and try not to go home with someone else’s wife—” The fork went down, but Thomas leaned into the table and whispered, “Which is more than I can say for another someone in this establishment.”

  “Didn’t know she was married until after.”

  “Listen to you justify yourself.”

  “How do you know Tawanda Amazon with the Harley out there isn’t married?”

  “Because I fuckin’ asked her.”

  “Oh, and you believe her?”

  “Did you even ask the lady?”

  Jameson said nothing, staring down at his coffee cup.

  “No. The answer’s no. You just let her into your room when she dropped by; am I right or am I right?”

  “Thomas, where is this going? You did the same fuckin’ thing fifteen years ago when you first started out. You told me yourself.”

  Thomas threw his fork down on his now-empty plate, sat back, and showed Jameson both of his palms. “I rest my case.”

  Jameson was so pissed off he was about to leave and let the old singer walk or take a taxi, except he figured Thomas didn’t have money for the taxi and he might get arrested for being drunk in public if the right kind of asshole cop were to find him.

  Thomas was really his only friend, or at least the only person in Nashville he could trust with anything other than a bottle. He saw perhaps his own future. Was this where he was headed?

  No. I’m special. I have what it takes. I’m not giving up on this dream of becoming a big star. Not everyone makes it. Most don’t. But I can do it. Maybe Thomas didn’t want it bad enough.

  He scanned the lines on his friend’s once-handsome face, the well-worn shirt collar he couldn’t afford to replace, and the white tee shirt underneath that was starting to turn yellow. He noticed the calluses on the man’s fingertips from years of playing, the knuckles that were starting to swell from early arthritis that shouldn’t happen to a man in his forties. If Thomas took better care of himself, would these things show up? If he didn’t drink so much? If he rested more, took care of himself? If he was happier?

  No, Thomas wasn’t going to give up, but it might kill him.

  Chapter 6

  ‡

  Assad sat across the table from the new recruits the prophet in Chicago had sent him. These were children. One of them had lost a brother in the little Nashville raid when the SEALs took over their compound. Several others knew brothers-in-arms who had been arrested, which was a blessing. The work would continue from the prison, if it was God’s will they should spend time there. A congregation of the believers was growing every day inside prison. They had everything they wanted, including conjugal visits with their ‘wives’ since most of the guards couldn’t keep them straight.

  The only thing Assad had missed out on was the sex with the Nashville girls. He would have wanted to do that. Smoke some pot, have sex with an infidel, make her think she should be the vessel for his seed, try to impregnate her, and then sell her to the sheikh’s supporters in Oregon, or, better yet, in Iraq or Syria. She’d be bearing what they called an “anchor baby,” an automatic ticket to obtaining a U.S. Passport.

  The American girls were so gullible. When his friend had written him about the deflowered infidels, one he’d deflowered himself, his dick got hard. He wanted a young American virgin; a blonde, or some fiery red-head, like the whores in Pakistan. Except these American women would be blonde or red all over. He wondered what that would look like, red or yellow hair between their creamy thighs, not black, like he’d seen in the pictures of girls at home. Black hair wasn’t sexy. He wanted them young and ripe, before they had any hair at all, or blonde. That was his dream every night before bedtime.

  God is good. If it is your will, I shall serve the prophet in this way.

  He rubbed himself at the excitement of it all. Underneath his woolen robe, his hardness was growing.

  “So we have been given an order from the Mosque in the Great White City. We will follow the warrior SEALs, but you must keep your distance. We will lure them with their women.”

  These boys grinned, obviously delighted to play with Legos or new comic books. They had no idea what they were getting into or that some of them would be sacrificed. Their parents were being held hostage in most cases, convinced the White City Mosque could run interference and they’d be purchasing protection at home in exchange for them giving up their precious boys. Only the most cunning would ever make it out alive. Those would turn into ‘coyotes,’ as the sheikh in Chicago was fond of calling them. It was their version of the Mexican coyotes who brought people across the border, he was a bringer of boys to further the cause.

  “You will tell us, Assad, how we do this,” the handsome one questioned. His dark eyes and shiny curled eyebrows made him resemble a young attractive girl. No doubt, his ass could be mistaken for a young girl’s to some of the older followers and the ones who had spent much time in prison. Or so it was said.

  “Sayid, you beautiful boy, they will fall in love with you and your eyes. You will speak to them in soft, hushed tones. You will read them Rumi.”

  Several of the boys reacted. Rumi was not allowed in the schools.

  “Yes, you will read about being their beloved.” Assad continued. “You will massage their breasts,” and he demonstrated it with a smattering of “Ohhs” from the boys. “And tell them you are devoted to them forever and forever. You will kiss them, this way.” He grabbed Sayid and forced his tongue down the young boy’s throat. Sayid protested and finally broke away, wiping his lips with the back of his sleeve as the others laughed.

  “To some girls, if you feel them up, down there,” he pointed to between his legs, “they have to marry you. Some churches actually preach that.”

  “It is forbidden to read Rumi, my teacher, or to buy the books,” one of the other boys said. “So how do we obtain such poems of love you speak of?”

  “Amazon. I have an account. I am a Prime Member! Free shipping, two days!”

  The boys were impressed and let him know their approval.

  “I will arrange to give each of you a book. You will memorize the lines to one poem, and then we will burn them so you don’t have to tell your parents you have touched something unclean, these books of Rumi.”

  While the boys were smiling and agreeing amongst themselves, Assad was thinking how very few of them would ever see or hear or be able to talk to their parents again. They were cannon fodder, but useful and essential cannon fodder.

  “When you find the woman you want—and you will find many beautiful women in Nashville, unlike Chicago—when you find one, she must be yellow or red-haired. Promise me you will not fall for a dark-haired or tan-skinned woman, okay? You will all take proper wives of that color, and you will love them and make their bellies ripe with your seed, but these women here in America, before you have done the good work to cleanse yourself to be worthy of a good Syrian bride, these women must be of the pink-skinned type with yellow or red hair.”

  He never questioned why the sheikh was so hell-bent on the blondes or red-heads. He knew lots of the ladies here made their hair that color. He figured he was on a need-to-know basis, and whatever the reason was, it wasn’t going to be made public anytime soon.

  “So when do we start?”

  “You have already started, my pupils. You are here. I will s
how you a few places we’ve been told about. We have some targets, but you will be out and around the city of Nashville, scoping out other targets. When the day comes, and we have some months to do this, we must be ready to act swiftly.

  He showed them the office of the contractor who had built the structures on the compound’s land. The man himself was a target. His deflowered daughter was another, and as he showed them her picture, there were appreciative nods and stares from the boys, most of them salivating.

  He showed the picture of the young Afghani woman, Alfari. “This woman was the young bride of our former sheikh. She was kidnapped and separated from him and then had to endure seeing her husband gunned down in front of her eyes.”

  The protests were loud.

  “But she allowed the infidels to take her. She went willingly with them. She must be made an example of. Her parents were told the price was not paid, so they have given consent for a mercy killing. That will bring them the protection they seek and will right the terrible wrong done to them and their family’s future.”

  “The U.S. government will allow a mercy killing, teacher?” one of the boys asked.

  “Yes. They practically condone it. You’ll see. Whomever does this deed will be praised at home and will probably never serve any jail time here.”

  He observed their faces as this sunk in to most of them. A couple of the boys apparently didn’t believe him.

  “They are afraid of us, boys. They do not want to stand up and cause a war on their own soil, even though it has already started. They’re too stupid to know it.”

  Then he showed them the pictures of the compound where the SEALs had been bunking. “We have lots of targets here. We will watch them and their every move. We will go where they go, and we will make notes on who they speak with. Those people will also become our targets.”

  He leaned back and allowed them to examine the drone pictures of the SEAL camp. They also poured over the overhead pictures of the Riverbend Maximum Security prison, and one boy recognized someone standing in the yard he’d known back home.

  “They think they have destroyed us. They do not know that we know so much about them or that replacements have arrived. Three of you will enter this high school in Nashville, sponsored by the church we have been working with.” Assad showed them pictures of the red and brown brick Oberon High School with the American flag flying outside its doors. “You are to observe and make friends, look like normal teenagers. Find out where they go, what they are thinking, and find the ones who wish to have drugs. Those weak ones will usher you into their commune. “You’ll find fast friends, especially if they can make some money off of the drugs you provide them. For these teenagers, the more money they make, the happier they are. You will never tell them about this group, never tell them anything about your country or your beliefs. Or your family. You will make it all up. You will learn that story just like you learn the Rumi poem. You will appear to be a brown-skinned teenager, but you will have the heart of a warrior, and your good deeds will live on for a thousand years. God is good!”

  “God is good!” the group answered.

  Chapter 7

  ‡

  Jameson was happy to see the SEALs enter Halfway to Heaven just as his first set was getting under way. There were more of them tonight. None of them brought women, something that wasn’t lost on the normal female population in the club; but there were so many women a dozen or two found their way over to sit with the SEALs, which didn’t begin to make a dent in his cheering section.

  Instead of going back to his dressing room, he left his guitar on stage, told the band to take a longer than normal break, grabbed his rum and coke, and stepped off the stage at the right, winding his way between ladies until he found the men in baseball caps.

  “Howdy. Glad to see you back. They didn’t charge you anything at the door, did they?”

  “Yeah, they did.” The tall medic shrugged. “That’s how you get paid, right?”

  “Yes, but Reed, that’s the owner, told me he’d let you guys in.” He looked up at Reed who was busy at the bar pouring drinks. Thomas raised his glass. Jameson waved him over, and the man ambled over to the crowd. “This here is my best friend, Thomas Becker. He’s my opening act, which you missed, sadly. He’s a helluva songwriter and taught me everything he knows.”

  Thomas wrinkled his brow and puckered his lips. “He’s a liar.”

  “Thomas, these are SEALs from San Diego.”

  “So what are y’all doing in Nashville?”

  “We came for the music,” one of them barked.

  “Long way from San Diego,” Thomas insisted. “How long are you here for?”

  “Going home tomorrow, actually,” answered the medic. Jameson liked the tall SEAL with the kind eyes. He and several other SEALs close to him were not interested in the girls who had brought chairs and were chatting the other SEALs up.

  The club was packed. Jameson scanned for evidence that the producers were in the house, but didn’t find them. “So tell me, if I can ask, how did you become a SEAL?” he asked Cooper.

  “My parents were farmers in Nebraska. I thought about farming. Lots of guys go into it. My dad and granddad wanted me to. My sister and her husband lived in the same house as my folks and my granddad. I don’t know, I just saw myself doin’ something else.”

  “Like getting shot at?” Jameson’s interest was piqued.

  Cooper looked at him a long while. “It’s sort of a calling, Jameson. Just something you find you have to do.”

  “But why?”

  “Why do you do this?” the Puerto Rican SEAL asked.

  “The money. I want to sing professionally, you know, get a record deal, be a star.”

  “And so you’re doing that. How does it feel?” Cooper asked him.

  Thomas had overheard them. “Yeah, Jameson, how does it feel?” Then he launched into song, “To be on your own. Like a rolling stone.”

  The laughter wasn’t comfortable. In fact, it pissed him off. Thomas was becoming someone he didn’t want to hang around anymore.

  “I love what I do. I can’t see myself doing anything else.” Jameson knew it was a lie as soon as the words left his mouth.

  “We do, too,” Cooper returned.

  One of the newcomers leaned forward. “Son, we’re honored to defend this great country of ours from its enemies. That’s what gets us all juiced up. And like Coop just told you, it’s a calling.”

  Jameson sat back and thought about the man’s comments.

  “This here’s our LPO, Kyle Lansdowne,” said Cooper. “He kind of leads us when we listen.”

  Several of the SEALs laughed as Jameson and Kyle shook hands.

  “I guess I defend this country against lousy music, then.” Jameson was having fun with them now.

  “There you go,” added Thomas. “How long you boys been in?”

  “Some of us have been in over ten years. A couple of the young ones came right out of high school.”

  Scanning the group of SEALs, he understood an unspoken comradery between them. He noted the way they looked him in the eye and answered questions so directly.

  After they talked a few minutes longer, he heard the band begin warming up on stage and took that as his cue. He had spent his whole time chatting with the SEALs and hadn’t lined anyone up to go home with. Perhaps that was for the best, he thought.

  “Thomas, make sure Reed knows their tab is on me. And tell him he’s an asshole for charging them anything to come in here. They’re heroes in my book, and heroes don’t pay.”

  “Will do, boss. Go make me proud,” Thomas said, as he slapped him on the back.

  More people had entered the Halfway. The second set was going to have the biggest audience he’d ever played to. He picked up his guitar just as a barmaid handed him another rum and coke, which he sipped, and then toasted the room. The crowd loved it.

  “Okay, this is for the heroes in the room. We got any heroes here tonight?” He put his hand ove
r his eyes to tone down the lights. A couple of drunks from the audience stood up and were pulled down. None of the SEALs stood. He watched Cooper and Kyle shake their heads. He knew it would be a mistake to call them out. “Well, I happen to think we are honored with some very special heroes here tonight. This here’s for you.”

  His All-American theme song was what he played at 4-H auction events and sometimes small local fairs. The crowd knew it well and started to clap and cheer. Thomas sat up straight and saluted him, since it was the song Thomas had written some ten years ago that he was sure would make a hit record.

  The rest of the set went smoothly. Thomas appeared to be enjoying the conversation with a couple of the SEALs, and he envied the man. In fact—and this had never happened before—he wished he was down there talking to them and Thomas was up on stage. For the first time in many months, he was not seeking someone from the front row. He knew there would be the opportunity if he stayed behind to sign the small posters Reed had made of the week-long gig. But that wasn’t what he was focused on.

  He finished the set, came back for the encore, and played two more songs, including his ‘come fuck me song’ that Thomas turned around for, giving him another salute.

  “Thank you for spending your hard-earned money to come hear my music,” was his final word to the audience. As an afterthought, he pointed to the SEALs. “Don’t you boys go anywhere. I’m gonna be right back.”

  He wasn’t sure what it was he wanted to say to them, but he put his guitar in the base, picked up his black bag in the dressing room, drank what was left of his now-warm rum and coke, and headed out to the theater.

  He stood amongst them. Cooper was the tallest. “It’s been a real pleasure and honor that you came to my show tonight. If I get this record deal, and I’m thinkin’ I will, I’d like to dedicate it to you boys.”

  Cooper shook his head. “Totally not necessary. We have all the recognition we want or deserve. You’re a helluva singer and songwriter. I think you really got something there.”